The jungle had just begun to wake. Light streamed through the trees in slivers, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and shadow. Dew clung to the leaves like tiny tears. Somewhere in the distance, a hornbill called. But in one quiet corner of the forest, everything was still.
A baby monkey named Kiri sat alone on a low branch, his small hands curled around a leaf, his chest rising and falling with soft, confused breaths. His eyes searched the trees—scanning every branch, every rustle—for the shape he knew best in the world: his father.
But there was no sign of him.
Just one day before, everything had been the way it always was.
Kiri had woken tucked safely under his father’s long arm, his fur warm against the bigger body that held him through the night. His father, Dara, was a strong, gentle monkey — known throughout their troop not just for his strength, but for how deeply he loved his only child.
While others played or foraged alone, Dara carried Kiri everywhere — letting him ride on his back or cling to his belly. He taught him how to peel fruit properly, how to leap from safe heights, how to listen to danger calls in the trees. More than that, he made Kiri laugh — with silly faces, playful chases, or whispered grooming sessions that felt like secrets between father and son.
“Stay close, little tail,” Dara would often murmur with a smile. “The trees are big, but I’ll always be nearby.”
And Kiri believed him.
That morning, they had set off together, as usual. Dara cradled Kiri with one arm, grabbing branches with the other, moving through the canopy in careful, practiced swings. Kiri giggled as they soared from tree to tree. He felt safe, even as the wind brushed his face and the world spun below them.
But then — in a single heartbeat — everything changed.
It was just one leap.
Just one branch.
A misjudged distance. A hidden crack. A slipperiness from early morning dew.
Dara jumped — as he’d done a thousand times — but his hand slipped.
He tried to twist mid-air, arms flailing to protect Kiri. But gravity didn’t forgive.
They hit the lower branches hard. Dara curled his body around his son, absorbing every blow, every scrape. Leaves and limbs snapped around them, until finally, they crashed to the ground.
Kiri was dazed but alive.
He wriggled out from beneath his father’s body, confused, blinking.
“Daddy?” he chirped softly, nudging him.
Dara didn’t move.
Kiri tried again — tugging his arm, patting his cheek with small hands.
“Daddy, wake up!”
But there was no answer.
Not right away.
After a long minute, Dara stirred. He lifted his head just barely. Blood trickled from his mouth. His chest rose in shallow breaths.
He looked at Kiri, eyes dim but still loving.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t move. Help… is coming.”
His hand reached for Kiri’s, weak but desperate to hold him one last time. Kiri curled into him, trembling. He didn’t understand what was happening — only that his father, the strongest monkey in the world, now looked small and tired and scared.
Dara tried to keep his eyes open. He tried to stay awake. But his body was broken — too much.
And then, slowly, his chest stopped moving.
His hand went still.
His eyes closed.
Kiri cried out — a piercing, shrill, baby cry — the sound of confusion, fear, and love all at once.
Hours passed.
Kiri didn’t leave his father’s side. He curled next to him, quiet now, every so often nudging him with hope that never paid off. He didn’t understand what death was. He only knew that Daddy wasn’t waking up.
Members of the troop found them by late afternoon. One of the older females gasped at the sight. Others gathered in silence. They formed a circle around Dara’s body — a vigil, a mourning ritual that monkeys share when one of their own passes.
Kiri didn’t cry anymore.
He just sat beside his father’s head, silent, staring.
When an aunt tried to pick him up, he clung to Dara’s fur tightly. “No,” his tiny eyes said. “I wait.”
But eventually, evening came.
And they had to leave.
Two adult monkeys gently lifted Kiri away — he screamed and fought, his cries echoing through the trees like shattered glass.
“No! No! Daaaaddy!!”
But Dara didn’t move.
Didn’t chase.
Didn’t carry him home.
That night, Kiri didn’t sleep. He lay in a nest of leaves, watched over by others, but his body trembled without warmth. He kept looking toward the trees, hoping to see that familiar figure come walking through — arms wide, smile kind, calling him “little tail” again.
But morning came. And Daddy didn’t.
In the days that followed, Kiri was quieter. He didn’t play much. He didn’t climb far. He just followed the adults slowly, sometimes sitting on a branch by himself, looking at nothing.
Other monkeys tried to distract him. His aunties groomed him gently. His cousins tried to engage him in games. But nothing filled that ache.
And one evening, as the sun set over the jungle, Kiri sat again on the same branch where he’d first waited — the spot where Daddy used to teach him how to peel fruit.
He held a half-eaten banana in his lap.
He didn’t eat it.
He just whispered into the air: “I miss you, Daddy.”
In time, Kiri would heal. He would grow stronger. He’d learn how to jump with the same grace. He’d remember the lessons Dara taught him — the safe branches, the danger calls, the way to find the sweetest fruit.
But he would never forget.
Because some bonds — especially those between a father and his child — go beyond time and branches and jungle paths.
